


Bigger Than The Sky

by fratboyryan



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Ski Instructors, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Skiing, shyan secret santa 2018, shyanwritingevents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fratboyryan/pseuds/fratboyryan
Summary: Lech Zürs am Arlberg is a ski resort in Austria, known for its powder snow, luxurious après ski, and state of the art chairlifts. Shane works there to chase the snow and follow his dreams of living down the slopes. He teaches the German-language beginner class, has a harmless crush on his favorite Netflix actor, and is sort of trying to escape real life. Ryan's an actor on the rise, whose growing fame and loss of a year old relationship is weighing down on him. To get an escape from it all, he takes a trip to Lech, to take lessons in skiing (as well as love).





	Bigger Than The Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghoulieboys](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ghoulieboys).



> This is written for @ghoulieboys on tumblr. They asked for angst, Mitski, jumpers, Christmas baking, and cuddling. I didn't quite get the angst in, and the jumpers is a little oblique (they're in the Alps! they're always wearing jumpers!) but I hope the other prompts come through! I tried to play on Mitski's themes of loneliness and dissatisfaction at the start, and I drew inspiration from her story behind the writing of "Nobody" for Ryan's trip. The title is from Mitski's "Remember My Name", the full line is "I need something bigger than the sky/hold it in my hands and know it's mine". I've never written a full fluff fic before, so I hope this is okay and you like it!
> 
> Lech Zurs is a real place, and I tried to do a lot of reading on it to get this fairly accurate. Sorry to any Austrian readers/pro skiers/ski instructors/etc, I am but a lone winter olympics fanatic...

“Shane!” someone yells, and Shane startles, fucking up his ascent off the jump and falling off the crest of the jump and into the packed snow on the other side. He gets a face full of dirty snow and probably a bruise on his hip. Fuck this.

Jordan jogs over to him from the edge of the trick park, carrying her board under her arm, in a way that Shane has never figured out how to make perfectly comfortable.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t recognise you without your instructor suit on, ha. Was looking for the blue. Need a hand?” she holds her hand out for him, and he shoves his poles under his armpit and lets her pull him up. Fine, if she’s going to play it like this.  
“Why are you bothering me on my day off?” he grumbles, shaking the snow off the back of his jacket and off his goggles.  
“You weren’t answering your phone and we needed to confirm this booking. I wanted to double check if –“  
“Whatever, I’ll do it if you take me off the German adult beginner group rotation,” he cuts in.  
“You were okay with private sessions with the guy for a month,” she says, and Shane wishes immediately that he’d let her finish, “okay, great! He’s looking for extended hours most days, but he’s American, so he should tip well.”  
“Is that even allowed?”  
“Evan said he’d take him for the weekends, but you know Evan is too attached to the boarder kids to want to leave them full time. You hate the German adult beginner group. I thought it’d be a nice break.”  
“Who’s taking the Germans?”  
“Kelsey I.”  
“Who?”  
“The new girl who started this season, Shane. Don’t be a dick.”  
“Whatever. I can’t believe you roped me into this.”  
“It’ll be fun! He says he’s an intermediate skier, so you probably won’t have to do much teaching.”  
“You know people who say that shit always have terrible habits that you have to force them to kick. You’re killing me here, Jordan.”  
“You’re the one who agreed! It’s your fault.”  
“Way to victim blame.”  
“It’s a fucking month, you get days off, you’re gonna get a fat check at the end of it. You’re in one of the most beautiful resorts in the world, with a free season pass. Your life isn’t that bad.”  
“Let me wallow! I’m wallowing now!” he announces, tilting down the mountain to get going.  
“Shane!” Jordan yells after him, but he leans forward to accelerate out of the park. “I’ll send you the info!”

He swings out of the snowpark and down to the chairlift, intent on not letting this revelation ruin his one day off. He heads up the Schlegelkopf, then the Kriegerhorn, deciding on the way that he’s going to hit as much of the Weiss ring he can before the resort closes for the night. Flying downhill, all his worries seem less significant.

* * *

Shane groans as he gets into the bath, the hot water numbing his cold hands and toes and warming him up from the outside in. He probably pushed those last two runs too hard for someone who has to teach a beginner’s class on three-day old snow, but whatever. He enjoyed it. And now he gets to relax in a tiny bathtub, so really, he’s winning. It’s only a week into the Arlberg season, and things are pretty dead, but Shane always overexerts himself with excitement to get back on the slopes.

Maybe twenty eight is too old to be scrolling Twitter for new content on his favorite TV show, Unsolved. He started watching it for the reviews it got, despite the stupid ‘detective who can talk to ghosts’ premise, but he stayed for the series’ star, Ryan Bergara. Shane’s watched enough TV to know Ryan’s an excellent actor with a talent for mixing comic relief into the serious tone of the show, but still, it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.

The current speculation going on is about why Ryan posted some cryptic IG stories about ‘going away soon’ and ‘needing a break from showbiz’, and if it was just a casual break or if there was something wrong. Shane’s seen a couple rehab accusations, maybe something to do with his (relatively) recent coming out as bi, but to be honest, he doesn’t think it’s either of those. Whatever. Celebrity gossip usually comes out in the wash, anyways, so whatever it is, he shouldn’t get too excited for it.

Jordan is not usually this disorganised, so he’s a little surprised that her email pops into his work inbox at half six. The plastic ziplock he’s put his phone into crinkles as he taps at the notification, quickly scanning the message.

               Hey, Shane

               Here’s the details, invoice, and an NDA he wants you to sign. Shouldn’t be anything too crazy but if you have an issue let me know tomorrow after the briefing. I’ll be in the office until 10.

               Jordan

               PS: YOU CAN’T BACK OUT! YOU PROMISED!

He rolls his eyes. He’s not going to back out _now,_ especially not when he opens up the invoice and realises how much this guy is paying for lessons. Shane hopes he’s not a total freak, considering how unusual it is for someone to a) take a month-long ski holiday when they’re not an avid skier, and b) in December, and c) pay for an instructor the entire time.

* * *

“What the fuck, Jordan!”

Jen giggles from her vantage point by the weather reports, obviously eavesdropping on him. Jordan doesn’t seem to care about his freak out.

“You got an issue with the NDA?”  
“I have the issue with the fact you didn’t tell me the client was _Ryan Bergara,_ star of hit TV show _Unsolved_ and Hollywood _heartthrob!”_  
“Oooh, you’re gonna cuddle up with him at the ski lodge… Share _something_ over après ski… It’s so _romantic…_ ” Jen calls at him, and Shane can only muster up the energy to flip her off.  
“What? I thought you’d like it. Plus, you promised to do it, you can’t back out now.”  
“I can quit.”  
“Who in Lech is going to hire you before the season even starts? Plus, you’ll have to give me your skipass.”  
“Fuck you. Fine. Fine! I’ll teach fucking Ryan Bergara, and I am going to like it!”  
“Did you just say you _are_ going to like it?”  
“Aren’t! I won’t!”

* * *

Shane’s very good and bulletproof plan for not seeming like a lovesick fan the second he meets Ryan is tested the moment Ryan waddles up in thirty layers, struggling a little to hold his rental skis together and manage his poles at the same time. He’s clearly not had a chance to get used to his ski boots, and the awkward waddle of someone navigating slushy sidewalks in the rigid shoes shouldn’t be this endearing.

Shane pretends he doesn’t know who Ryan is. It’s just easier that way.

“Hey! Shane Madej?” Ryan asks, pronouncing it Mad-e-juh.  
“Ryan Bergara?” Shane replies, holding his hand out for Ryan to shake.  
“That’s me,” he smiles, “good to meet you, man.”  
“Great,” Shane says, “we should get up on the mountain before the crowds hit, let me see your skills.”  
“What, don’t trust me to say how much I know?”  
“I’ve been burned before. Plus, everyone needs a moment to get their ski legs back.”  
“Their what?”  
“Ski legs. Like sea legs, except it’s for skiing. Follow me, the Seekopf is going to get a little busy.”

They only walk a couple minutes before Shane realises this is going to be excruciating if he has to keep waiting for Ryan to manage his skis. They’re shifting around in his arms, and he nearly drops them into the street a few times. Shane puts his hand out to catch Ryan’s top ski from falling, putting his own down for a second as he slots Ryan’s together.

“Here,” he says, handing Ryan his poles, “you take those, I’ll grab your skis.”  
“I’m fine, I can manage –“ Ryan protests, but Shane’s having none of it.  
“Just as long as you get used to your boots. It’ll make this easier for the both of us.”  
Ryan sighs, and lets Shane swing his skis onto his shoulder in defeat.

Getting on the chairlift is painless, so Shane can rest happy knowing he doesn’t have a total rookie who lied on the phone. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“You should take your pole-straps off before you get on the chairlift.”  
“What? Why?”  
“If your pole gets caught in the machinery, you could break your fingers or wrist. It’s quite dangerous.”  
“But what if I drop my pole?”  
“Trust me, a dropped pole is much easier to fix than a broken arm or dislocated shoulder.”  
“I guess that makes sense…”

Shane shifts his poles out of the way and shuffles a little so he can face Ryan better. The old German guy sitting beside Shane throws him a dirty look, but ski instructors get a lot of leeway in their bright blue jackets.

“What’s your experience on the slopes?”  
“Well, uh,” Ryan starts, and his eyes crinkle up behind his goggles as he thinks. It’s too fucking cute. Shane absolutely _hates_ that Ryan actually looks the same way he does on the show, except less gritty and gory. He’s dumb hot. “I’ve only been a handful of times, I’m from California, but I’ve skied probably two or three times, and snowboarded another three or four. I think I’m pretty good.”  
“You’re with me for a month, you’ll definitely be a better skier by the end of it. What are your goals for this month? Is there something in particular you want to tackle?”  
“It’s twenty three days,” Ryan corrects, like it’s been a major point of contention with others.

“Fine, twenty three days. You’re going to be a pro.”  
“Maybe I could try jumps? I don’t really know. My friend just recommended I come to Europe to get away from… everything back home. I just wanted to escape, decided to book a last minute ski holiday.”

Shane bites his tongue from making a comment about Ryan’s apparent riches, because he knows that’s uncouth and doesn’t endear himself to his clients.

“You should have stayed in America if you wanted trick skiing,” Shane can’t help but say, “the infrastructure for that isn’t as good in Lech.”  
“Well, it doesn’t really matter. I just came here because a friend said it would be a good place to go, get away from everything back home. I just wanted time to myself, y’know?”  
“Yeah. I get it.”

* * *

Ryan’s sure it’s snow madness, he’s maybe got the same thing as the Dyatlov pass guys. He’s too old to have a crush on his ski instructor who doesn’t even seem to like him. Shane doesn’t even talk to him about anything other than skiing, and after four days you’d think there’d be something else he’d want to mention, but all this man thinks about is how to ski.

The issue, therefore, is how when they stop by the alpine restaurant for lunch, the entire place a perfect little European house, full of romantic wood beams and surrounded by a dazzling view, Ryan thinks he’s a little bit in love with Shane. There’s just something about it, when he takes off his jacket and helmet and goggles to reveal his strong features, the thermals showing off the subtle definition in his body. When his façade of nonchalance breaks and he smiles at Ryan, or when he makes a strange joke that causes Ryan to wheeze with laughter, Ryan imagines being with Shane.

He tries to not ogle Shane over their skiwasser and rosti.

He fails at not ogling Shane.

The problem is that Shane is infinitely attractive, in the lanky pale strange ski instructor way. It’s such a change from Hollywood and all the expectations there, his confidence in his skills and scraggly beard. Ryan can’t explain it, but when Shane takes his clear-framed glasses from his backpack to read the menus like he’s not going to order the same thing he normally does, Ryan goes absolutely fucking buck wild.

“Would you take me to a good après-ski spot this afternoon? I’ll buy,” Ryan offers. He only asks a little bit out of thirst, most of it is the sheer loneliness of being on a mountain where he knows no one. He can only stomach one sad beer before he goes back to his ski-in lodge and curls up in the jacuzzi.

Shane looks at him with a funny expression, something that Ryan doesn’t have enough time to parse before it melts from Shane’s face into a professionally blank ghost of a smile.

“Sure,” he sighs, and Ryan’s guilty he put Shane on the spot like the douchebag rich guy he is.  
“I mean you don’t have to, just was wondering –“ Ryan panics, covering his tracks and interrupting Shane.  
“Are you looking for something upscale or –“  
“Actually don’t worry, I don’t pay you to be a tour guide –“  
“Ryan.”  
“Sorry for being weird, I just –“

“Ryan,” Shane repeats, “it’s fine. We can go for après-ski. You can buy me champagne if you really feel terrible.”  
“Is champagne the thing to drink at après-ski?”  
“Well, it is if you’re wealthier than me. Do you like mulled wine?”  
“Sure, I guess. I wouldn’t say I have many feelings about it either way.”

* * *

They end the Weiss ring and a week of hard skiing with some well deserved gluhwein and a cheeky shot of pear schnapps. Shane gives Ryan a _friendly_ wink when he puts the shot glasses down on their outdoor table, and Ryan hates himself for being totally charmed.

How typical, really, the lonely heart goes to find himself on a ski mountain, only to find himself a perfect man. Shane, when he forgets himself (or rather, forgets that Ryan’s his client) is silly and sarcastic and genuine. He holds himself with perfect control, knows exactly how to gesture to pull a laugh from Ryan. Even when Ryan’s face down in the snow, Shane’s there to pick him up and dust him off.

Shane’s gloves and goggles are stuffed into his grey helmet next to Ryan’s rental, resting on the other end of the slatted wooden table. He’s chosen to sit on the same side of the bench as Ryan, huddling next to Ryan on the same fur skin. His thigh isn’t touching Ryan’s, but if Ryan moved his knee a little bit to the left, he’d brush against Shane’s blue instructor’s pants. He’s taken off the blue instructor’s jacket and the fleece jacket he wears underneath, and he’s practically naked in just a grey thermal shirt and his suspenders.

Ryan barely tastes the shot and the gluhwein as he downs them both, trying to avoid watching the way he rests the cup against the scruffy beard he sports, the way the honey-brown hairs are drawn up against the grain when he drags the mug against his face. It looks sort of silly, holding his mug right against his cheek and lips, but Ryan understands it. He doesn’t get the same luxury of being able to wear a kerchief over his face all day, and the alpine winds are cold. Ryan wishes he was the mug, able to feel the reddened apples of Shane’s cheeks and the chapped skin of his lips.

“You didn’t enjoy that,” Shane says, and for a second Ryan thinks he’s caught the way Ryan is mooning at him. It takes a wave of his hand, a gesture to Ryan’s empty mug, for the meaning to click.  
“Right. I was thirsty.”  
“Thirsty?” Shane asks, and Ryan immediately regrets his choice of words.

Shane gets up, and Ryan wishes the ground would just swallow him whole when Shane leaves without another word, leaving all his things by Ryan’s side. Shane’s probably grossed out by Ryan’s stupid obsession with him, probably used to it from any number of bachelors or bored housewives. Dread settles into his bones, and he wonders if he can call the skischule to ask for an instructor switch. He knows he has a different teacher tomorrow, maybe there’s someone else who could take the rest of his lessons. Perhaps he should just put down the skis, commit himself to a life of boarding.

Of course Shane comes back with a tall glass of water, because he’s perfect, and Ryan falls a little deeper in like with him. It’s so cliché, crushing on the only person who’s given Ryan his undivided attention in a while, but Shane is the perfect, harmless, unattainable crush he needs after the whole thing with Brent.

Maybe a year is too long to be mourning such an unserious relationship, and it’s not like they’re on bad terms anymore. It’s been his easiest break-up in a long time, if it even counted as such. Brent was just looking for something different, and Ryan wasn’t his end game. Brent wasn’t even Ryan’s end game.

Ryan’s type is all too apparent.

* * *

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Shane doesn’t budge an inch, unwilling to give this ground to Ryan, even with the evidence he’s pulled up from Youtube on his frozen phone.

“You’re just ignoring the whole fucking video, man! How is this not evidence? Objects just don’t _move_ like that!” Ryan slams his mug down onto the table, knocking his shoulder into Shane’s.  
“Have you heard of a thing called _gravity,_ Ryan? It’s why things fall _down._ ”  
“It flies _up_ before falling! It must have been thrown by something from beyond –“  
“That’s ridiculous. Let’s say it _did_ go upwards – which it doesn’t – you seem to think that everything you can’t easily explain with your rudimentary understanding of science is caused by ghosts, which is obviously incorrect. It’s like you came out of the middle ages and your only explanation for things is the supernatural and demons.”

Ryan throws his hands up into the air, shaking his head at the ridiculous claim. It’s like arguing with a brick wall, except the brick wall likes playing the Devil’s advocate just for fun.  

“You’re impossible. This is real evidence, right in front of you, and you can’t accept its validity because you are obviously _blind_ or something. Seriously?”

Shane gives him a soft, exasperated smile, but as quickly as it comes, it leaves. Ryan doesn’t know what’s wrong, but Shane’s entire demeanour stiffens up, like someone took a taser to the base of his spine. Ryan can’t place his expression, but if he were to guess he’d say it’s half way between a glare and surprise, and what the fuck does _that_ mean, anyway?

Ryan watches (somewhat creepily) Shane shovel the last few forkfuls of rosti into his mouth, and then stand up so quickly the table rattles.

“Bathroom,” Shane mumbles, and zips off to another corner of the restaurant before Ryan can say anything else.

The rest of the afternoon, they only talk about skiing. On the two-seater chairlift, Shane leaves about a foot of space between Ryan and him.

* * *

Evan, Ryan’s Saturday snowboard instructor, is not as tall as Shane, but makes up for it by being twice as wide in all the right ways. Even in his baggy snowboarder’s garb, his shoulders seem to want to bust the jacket open. Evan is kind, charming, and attractive.

It’s a shame Ryan’s type seems to be scruffy white boys with a terrible sense of humor.

Evan navigates the mountain like a puzzle, drawing patterns in the snow with his board that carve and curl down the piste, lingering just enough for Ryan to follow him. Getting on a board, despite his practice with skating, seems a little foreign after all the skiing of the week. He misses skiing, watching the way Shane skis like it’s an extension of his body. When Shane’s on the snow, flying around the corner of a mountain pass and into a neat tuck to barrel down a hill and up the other side, Ryan doesn’t have to see his face to read joy in every line of his body. Shane skis like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Ryan wants a piece of that.

Ryan lands on his ass into a snowdrift one too many times, and the ice that snuck up his jacket is beginning to melt. He calls it quits to Evan, and they board into a restaurant to grab some gluhwein and warm up.

“How are you liking Lech?” Evan asks, just trying to make conversation. Ryan tries not to fault him for not being Shane.  
“It’s really nice,” Ryan replies, “I like the whole ski culture. It sort of looks like a fairy-tale. A bit different to America, though.”  
“I agree. America has more trees and things, but I like the pistes here. The view of the alps is amazing.”

Ryan hasn’t seen the alps all week, but the view has been amazing. Even if it’s only of one man.

* * *

Ryan’s ski-in lodge is the exact kind of ostentatious Austrian chalet design that Shane has come to appreciate, even if somewhat by Stockholm Syndrome. It’s all vaulted ceilings and exposed dark wooden beams, and someone’s hung up a festive little wreath on the door. It’s the kind of kitschy little thing Shane can imagine a sucker like Ryan would fall for.

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” Ryan asks. It’s been a hard day of skiing, bitterly cold and low visibility, and it’s worn down Shane’s defences like a candy cane in a young boy’s mouth. What is he to do but shrug and agree.  
“Sure thing,” he replies, because one drink can’t hurt.

That’s really his problem, isn’t it. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to be the creepy fan, obsessing over his favorite actor when he’s meant to be a professional. On the other hand, Ryan is a genuinely entertaining guy. He’s all the things Shane thought he would be from the interviews: funny, confident, sweet; but also has depths he never imagined Ryan Bergara from tv to have. And that’s the problem: he’s been let into the secret world of Ryan Bergara, and he’s totally in love with him. His problem is he can’t get out of this hole he’s dug himself into. He’s stuck.

They leave their skis on the rack outside and kick off the snow from their boots, clomping in to the antechamber to take off their boots. Shane unbuckles each clasp by rote, easing his way out of his boots with the ease that comes from years of practice. He does each clasp back up to keep the form, and then watches Ryan struggle for a second before offering to help.

“Thanks,” Ryan looks genuinely grateful, which Shane can understand. He’s probably been struggling with his ski boots all week, and Shane feels guilty for not being there every time.  
“I’ll tug it off, you just sit tight,” Shane grips the boot, and counts, “one, two, three!”

The boot comes off in Shane’s hand and he stumbles back, sticking his sock straight into a patch of snowmelt. Fuck.

“Can you get the other?” Ryan asks, sheepishly, and how could Shane refuse?

He gets down on his knees and unbuckles Ryan’s other boot, unstrapping the Velcro and then working the ladder catches open and removing the pressure from his foot, one by one. This time, the boot slips off a little easier, and Shane’s able to take Ryan’s foot in his hand. He massages the back of his calf and the ball of his foot a little, helping the rush of blood into his extremities.

“I think you could be wearing your boots a little too tight. Do you get numb in your toes?”  
“Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s just cold or numbness.”  
“Tomorrow I’ll get you some foot warmers, hopefully that will sort the problem. You shouldn’t constrict your feet.”  
“Thanks,” Ryan says, and gets up, finishing taking off his ski jacket and the rest of his thermals.

The open living space already has a fire roaring, warming the whole room up. It’s not a massive lodge, but definitely meant to house more than one person. It’s full of tasteful cream throws and wood décor. Shane just thinks it looks lonely.

“I’ve got some beers, if you want one.”  
“Sounds good.”

Ryan walks over to the open plan kitchen, passing Shane a Stiegl and taking one for himself. He closes the fridge door and just stares at Shane, watching his face for some sort of reaction. Shane doesn’t know what to say. Oh.

“Thanks. Uh, do you have a bottle opener?”  
“Oh!” Ryan exclaims, and rests his bottle against the edge of the counter, and then slams his hand on top of the bottle, and the cap pops off. “Here you go.”  
Shane swaps his unopened bottle for Ryan’s, quirking his eyebrow at the display.  
“I was in a frat,” Ryan explains, doing the same again, “learned a lot of life skills there.”  
“Well,” Shane replies, finding nothing else to do, and holding his bottle out, “cheers to that, then.”

He feels all too familiar with Ryan, suddenly. He’s in his house, like a total creep. It’s easier when he forgets that Ryan is famous, is his favorite eye candy actor, but when Ryan turns to a three-quarter profile and he looks exactly like his Twitter avatar, Shane can’t ignore it. He can’t help it; he freezes.

“So, uh,” Ryan says, “where are you from?”

Shane knows he’s just trying to start conversation, make it a little less awkward than simply standing and staring at each other, but knowing that Ryan doesn’t really care about his life story still sucks a lot. He wants Ryan to be asking because he’s genuinely interested, because he thinks Shane is a cool guy, not just because Shane is the only person he’s talked to in an entire week.

“Schaumberg, Illinois,” he replies, maybe a little snippier than is polite.  
“Holy shit, are you kidding?” Ryan laughs, and geez, way to make a guy feel appreciated. Nothing better than your celebrity crush laughing at your hometown.  
“Why would I joke about that?”  
“I don’t know, I just thought you were Austrian or something. I mean, your phone is in German!”  
“That’s just so it’s easier for me to practice my German during the Austrian off season. I’m American, just like you.”  
“Oh.”  
“Not all white guys in Austria are German, Ry.”

The nickname slips out before Shane can help it, but by the time he says it he can’t just tack on an extra _an_ without making it weird. But he’s already made it weird, and Ryan gives him a _look,_ and Shane’s blood runs cold for a pregnant moment.

Fuck. He knocks back the rest of his beer. He waits.

“Ha, I guess so,” Ryan acquiesces, and Shane’s just happy he ignored the elephant in Shane’s words. “I shouldn’t be the one generalising. Thanks for this life lesson, Shane.”  
“Well, you do pay me to teach. Consider this one a freebie.”  
“I’m paying you in beer!” Ryan protests, but it’s cut off by Shane’s phone beeping.

Shane checks it. It’s a weather warning; attached is a report from the ski lifts. Fuck.

“The chairlifts are closed, and so are the roads out of Oberlech. The storm came much earlier than predicted. I’m not going to be able to get home. I have to try to call my manager.”

Shane hadn’t noticed it before, through the mist and against the white backdrop, but now he knows what to look for, he can recognise the movement of falling snow. It’s almost a blizzard, and according to the forecast, it’s only going to get worse.

Shane goes into the living room, standing by the window and dialing Jen, hoping she’d pick up in time.

“Hey, Jen,” he greets her when she picks up.  
“Hey Shane, where are you? The roads are closed!”  
“I know, I just saw the alert. I’m at Ryan’s. Do you know any place in Oberlech I could stay tonight, since I definitely won’t be able to get to St Anton.”  
“I can call round and get back to you, hopefully there’ll at least be a place in a hotel for you. Did you say you were at Ryan’s place?”  
“Yes. Don’t –“  
“When I told you to cuddle up to him, I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”  
“Jen,” he replies in German, so hopefully Ryan won’t understand, “he’s here with me. You can’t just say stuff like that, what if he overhears?”  
“Why don’t you tell him about your crush on him? Maybe you could offer to give him _private lessons._ ”  
“You’re incorrigible. Shut up and help me find a place to stay.”  
“Okay! I’ll try to call back in half an hour. Check your phone!”

When Jen hangs up, Shane turns away from the window, and sees Ryan standing at the other end of the room. He can’t help flushing: Ryan doesn’t seem like he understood Shane’s half of the conversation, and he couldn’t’ve heard Jen. Still, it feels wrong to discuss his infatuation in the man’s own house.

“You can stay here,” Ryan says, “sorry to eavesdrop, but. You can stay here, I have a spare room I don’t use. Don’t want you to die in a blizzard out there.”  
“I wouldn’t die in the blizzard just getting to Oberlech,” he insists, partially because just _entering_ Ryan’s house was a dangerous game, let alone _staying_ in it.  
“Please, man? Just for my peace of mind.”

Shane has never been especially good at denying himself the things he wants. He fell in love with skiing as a child, and spent his whole life following the snow. He drinks when he likes, he doesn’t live a very complicated life, he’s able to do what he loves. He could have wormed his way out of teaching Ryan if he really didn’t want to. He wanted to.

He wants this, too.

“Well, if you insist.”  
“Great! Well, you should probably call Jen back, just to tell her you’re staying here? I’ll get you another beer,” Ryan says, and he looks genuinely happy that Shane’s staying over.

“Hey Jen,” he says, when Jen picks up on the first ring.  
“Hey Shane,” she responds, and he doubts she was even calling around.  
“Don’t say anything. Ryan’s letting me stay over.”  
She laughs over the phone, cackling at his _extreme predicament,_ with nary a care for anything that could go wrong.  
“Shut up.”  
She keeps laughing.  
“Shut up,” he repeats, this time in German, “this is terrible! I’m in his house! He’s trying to get me drunk!”  
“So get drunk, you stupid motherfucker. He wants to bang his schmexy ski instructor. It’s the oldest trope in the slope books!”  
“You’re ridiculous. Why would he want to have sex with me when there’s an entire town of leggy Austrian babes?”  
“You’re leggy? I don’t know. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

* * *

Shane’s staying over at Ryan’s for the night, and he’s a little bit worried. He doesn’t have very good internet here, or DVDs, or even board games. He’s told himself he’s reading scripts and informative books, but honestly he’s just been falling asleep in the jacuzzi tub, waking up, and then going to his bed to pass out again there. He doesn’t really have any activities, and he doesn’t want Shane to get sick of his conversation.

Grabbing another beer for Shane takes all of two seconds, and chugging a second takes about the same amount of time. He pulls his third beer out of the fridge, and then searches madly around the kitchen for something to do.

He unearths some sugar, flour, eggs, butter, vanilla extract, and baking powder, using a combination of Google translate and his sense of smell. The bottle of vanilla and the baking powder tin look a bit dusty, and he doesn’t remember buying the flour, but if it’s in the rental kitchen it must be there to be used.

They can bake cookies, according to allrecipes.com. That’s an activity.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Shane says when he slips into the kitchen after an extended German conversation with Jen.  
“As long as it’s okay with you, of course. I just didn’t want you to be caught in the blizzard outside.”  
“No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer.”  
“Not at all! As long as you’re safe.”  
“Well,” Shane says, and looks away as he picks up his bottle, “thank you.”

Ryan makes the active decision to not antagonise over that. He doesn’t. Really.

“I have cookies! Well, I was going to make them. You can help me if you’d like. It’s a family tradition.” A little white lie around Christmas time is a Bergara family tradition.  
“Okay, little guy, let’s make cookies.”  
“Who are you calling little? I’m not the one who’s a yeti!”

They’re both another bottle of beer in by the time they have a solid dough, ready to be rolled out. Shane’s floured the surface when Ryan realises they’ve hit a snag in their plan: he’s got no rolling pin.

“This is embarrassing,” he frets, “how are we going to make them into cookies? Fuck.”  
“Don’t worry,” Shane explains, “do you have a wine bottle? We can use it for the same purpose.”  
“Okay. That, I do have.”

So maybe he was feeling melodramatic earlier in the week and bought a bottle or two of red wine, with the intent to drink it in the bathtub while blasting Mitski. So what? He hands Shane the bottle, and to Shane’s credit, he remembers to flour it before pounding at the dough like it singlehandedly got him fired.

“Go easy there, big guy,” Ryan mumbles from his position on the other side of the kitchen, watching Shane’s arms flex in his grey thermal. He’s got a sense of athleticism to him, lean muscle built from years of outdoor sporting. More importantly, he pokes his tongue out slightly while he rolls the dough into a kind of even sheet, and Ryan imagines what it would be like to turn him around and kiss him.

Shane looks at him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, pushing his stubble hairs up so they hit the light, turning golden. He just looks warm, his funny turned down Hugh Grant eyes half closed in an expression of softness, and whatever Christmas grinchiness Ryan held in his heart melted.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” Shane murmurs, leaning in.  
“Here?” Ryan asks, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.  
“No, wait, let me –“ Shane mumbles, licking his thumb and swiping it across the patch of skin just above the right side of Ryan’s top lip.

Ryan shivers.

“Got it.”

Fuck, if Ryan isn’t falling for all the tricks in the playbook right now. He doesn’t even care. Shane’s attractive, and Ryan doesn’t just think that because he’s lonely.

Shane licks his thumb again, and whispers, “I think it’s actually sugar.”

“I’ll get a knife!” Ryan announces, stepping back and pulling a paring knife out of the knife block, and a mug from the cupboard above. “I’ll cut the shapes out now.”  
“Why don’t I get to cut the shapes?” Shane grouches, “you get all the good jobs.”  
“Why don’t you pour me a glass of wine, then, if you want to be useful.”  
“Oh yes, your majesty, whatever you desire,” Shane snarks back, getting a pot out and turning on the stove, “I’m going to do you one better and mull this bad boy.”  
“Do I even have the ingredients for that?”  
“Well, you’ve got spices here, and I can just put in a lemon and some honey instead of an orange. It’s basically the same thing.”  
“Is that the three beers talking?”

Shane goes silent as he pours the wine out into the pot. It comes out in thick glugs, providing a percussion to Ryan’s free-form star cookie.

“Could be.”  
“The German stuff is strong, dude.”  
“Ah – don’t let the Austrians hear you call it that! You’ll get in trouble!”  
“Same fucking difference.”  
“It’s your funeral, Bergara. Be my guest.”

* * *

The mulled wine isn’t bad, and after two glasses of that and a shit ton of lightly burned cookies, Ryan’s feeling sated, self-satisfied, and sleepy. He blames that on why he shuffles along the couch, closer to Shane, resting his head against the cushion only an inch away from Shane’s shoulder. Shane took off his ski pants after they pulled the cookies out, and he’s basically naked in just his thermals.

Ryan wants to cuddle.

Shane’s watching the fire crackle in its place – he built it up to a roaring mass, clearly better at it than Ryan’s pathetic attempts – and he seems almost hypnotised by the flames. The flames cast warm shadows across the room, dancing up Shane’s body and playing with the contours of his face. He looks like he’s glowing.

Ryan wants to kiss him.

“Can I tell you something?” Shane asks, his voice soft and dry, like careful puppy licks against Ryan’s knuckles.  
Ryan’s breath catches in his throat.  
“I lied to you, little guy. I’m sorry.”

Ryan tries to quash the million worries and fears that fly through his brain, tries to steady his voice, tries not to panic when he replies with, “’bout what?”

“I knew who you were. I’m an _Unsolved_ fan. I… was trying to be professional.”  
“Oh.”

Ryan looks away, somewhat embarrassed by his profession now. He spent a lot of time dancing around the question of what he did for a living, when he needn’t have bothered. It’s sort of embarrassing, now, how foolish he must seem. It was kind of stupid to think they didn’t have Netflix in Austria.

It’s only when he steals a glance at Shane, the flush high on his cheeks and the way he’s pursed his lips nervously, that Ryan starts to think Shane didn’t let him know for a different reason.

“Well. Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”  
“I do! I really…” Shane sighs, “I really do.”

Shane’s embarrassed about liking his show, and that’s why he won’t meet Ryan’s eyes. Ryan gets it – his show is a bit of a cheesy feel good comedy. He’s not winning any major awards for drama. He knows his show is a guilty pleasure, and it must be pretty awkward to be teaching the lead actor.

“I’m a fan of your work, too,” Ryan tells him, leaning impossibly closer. He may be a little tipsy, which is why he thinks this is a good line. “You look good… I mean, you’re a good skier. You look it.”  
“Thank… you?” Shane hesitates, making the mistake of catching Ryan’s eyes. Ryan wonders if he can lean closer.  
“I’m cold,” Ryan tells him, “can we cuddle?”

Shane looks shocked, and then a thousand different emotions that Ryan can’t work out run across his face, before he settles on saying: “sure.”

 _Sure_ is enough for Ryan, who leans into his chest and slides his arm around Shane’s waist.

* * *

They wake up on the couch, and Ryan slept remarkably well for a couch night. He supposes Shane’s responsible – for such a bony thing, he’s pretty soft.

“Hey,” Shane greets him in a sleepy tone, “good morning. I think the storm’s over.”

Ryan looks outside, and it’s true: the blizzard’s run its course overnight, leaving a cloudless sky and brilliant view of the Alps. The snow sort of looks like it’s sparkling, totally untouched by man. Shane must rise early, because the last dregs of the sunrise are leaving, faint washes of orange and pink making way for the postcard-blue of the sky.

Shane’s already getting up, stretching his long limbs against the back of the couch to get ready for the day. Ryan spends a moment ogling his stretching faces and cataloguing his groans for later, and then gets up to find some breakfast.

“I only have OJ and cereal. Is that okay?” Ryan asks, setting out some bowls and spoons.  
“Sounds good. If we eat up, we can make first tracks before everyone else.”  
“Sorry?”  
“We can ski unskied snow. Truly fresh stuff, especially if we get to a good off-piste area. It’ll be all powder.”  
“Yeah, wow. Sounds like a good idea.”  
“Don’t worry,” Shane laughs, “I won’t charge you for the extra two hours.”  
“God, I hope not. You’ve already taken all my money.”

Ryan’s a little disappointed when Shane starts getting dressed again, because he doesn’t get to ogle the way Shane’s thermals fit over his white boy ass so well. It’s nice to wake up with him, be able to watch him start his day. It’s domestic, like they’ve been living together for ages, like they’ve already established a routine.

Shane’s munching on cookies as Ryan trips into his outer layers, already with Ryan’s helmet and gloves in hand. Despite starting on their boots together, Shane gets his on in a fourth of the time it takes Ryan to push his foot into one. Shane doesn’t even say anything, this time, just slides down to the floor and starts to buckle Ryan into his rental boot.

His fingers work quick at the ladder catches, working them closed until they’re firm but not constricting.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” Shane says, flicking closed Ryan’s second catch.  
“It’s great, thank you,” Ryan replies, and if he sounds out of breath, it’s only because Shane looks hot when he knows what he’s doing.  
“I’m gonna leave them a bit looser than yesterday for now, tell me how that feels on the slopes, okay? We can always adjust it.”  
“Sure, that sounds good.”

Shane helps him into the second boot, and then stops. He just sits completely still, his hand still on the back of Ryan’s knee. He’s staring up at Ryan’s face, like he’s contemplating something, turning Ryan over in his head.

“You okay there, big guy?”  
“Can I try this?” Shane asks, “I hope I’m not wrong.”

His ski boots scrape against the ground as he sits up a little, hand curling behind Ryan’s head and pulling him down to meet him in a kiss. It’s as sweet as snowmelt, as sacher torte, as gluhwein on a cold mountain. He doesn’t want to leave Shane’s embrace, expose himself to the cool alpine air again.

“Was that okay?” Shane asks, and Ryan finds it cute that he’s still worried, even after he made out with the guy.  
“It was more than okay,” Ryan replies, and in an attempt to lean down and kiss Shane again, he kicks him in the shin.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @fratboyryan!


End file.
